The Revelations of Kawhi Leonard and C.J. McCollum

Eventually, it’s out of our hands. Exactly when this happens, and to what degree, is a question of theology. But no matter how astute we are, no matter how much work we’ve put in, no matter how thoroughly convinced we may be of the soundness of our methods, at some point chance, fate, God’s will, or the counterintuitive laws that govern subatomic particles and as such are beyond our in-the-moment comprehension, takes over, and there’s nothing left for us to do but wait and see what happens.

There were four seconds left on the clock when Kawhi Leonard pulled up in the corner with Joel Embiid’s hand in his face. What followed seem to last an eternity. By any measure, Leonard put up an ugly shot. It appeared to connect with the wrong side of the rim; as it made impact, we started to get excited about overtime, because overtime is never a bad thing in a highly competitive game (unless you’re an ardent fan just pining for the thing to be over, one way or the other). But this mood was ripped to pieces almost as soon as it set in when the ball took what Leonard later described as the proverbial “shooter’s bounce,” arching slightly so that when it hit the rim again, it was on the “good” side. It was a shocking development that almost certainly wasn’t supposed to happen. But it did, and as the ball drifted across the cylinder, we started to come to grips with the fact that it had happened. Two more bounces and several lifetimes later, the ball dropped through the hoop and by then, we were right there when the world exploded.

What we could never have anticipated, though, was Leonard’s reaction. The famously stoic All-Star let out an audible, full-throated yell. His eyes opened wide and lit up. His features shed their usual doomy cast and came alive. His mouth stayed opened for longer than it should have, giving us ample time to note his blue, Gatorade-stained tongue—a brilliant, if inadvertent, bit of product placement—as his expression registered a combination of pride, shock, awe, joy, and relief. It was a gripping reminder that Leonard, like any other human, is capable of a wide range of emotions, and in the grips of an extraordinary situation, can have a quite complex variety of them welling up inside of him. But we’re not used to seeing Leonard as a person because he keeps us at arm’s length, or at least rarely gives us any glimpse into who he is outside of his ultra-professional, at times blank, on-court demeanor. That he suddenly revealed so much of himself was almost as surprising as his shot’s lucky bounce.

Leonard seemed conflicted in the post-game interview that followed. He was clearly trying to get a handle on himself, to exert the control that, in addition to being his hallmark as a player, allows him to largely govern how we view him as a person. Leonard even tried to wriggle away before the final question. But as he attempted to run through canned answers about hard work and preparation, perhaps trying to steady himself, it was obvious that he was also stunned. Maybe it was because he had spent the first three quarters jacking up shots even though he wasn’t in rhythm, which is the least Kawhi Leonard-y form of basketball imaginable. But with the rest of the Raptors also coming up short, it was what he had to do to give his team any chance of advancing to the next round. More likely, though, he couldn’t believe that his shot had fallen. When Leonard tried to talk about what goes into that kind of play, it rang hollow because he knew that, on some level, this wasn’t his outcome to own.

That’s when Leonard pivoted abruptly to talking about Jesus, which in context made perfect sense. “Shooter’s bounce” revealed itself as a euphemism; Leonard wasn’t searching for an explanation because he already had one. He wasn’t reeling in disbelief. In fact, it was likely the opposite because that bounce confirmed that there are limits to control and that this isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It’s not even that Leonard, or other athletes who like to talk about religion, think that God is pulling for them to succeed. It’s more that seeing outcomes that unfold beyond the realm of human possibility is at once comforting and hair-raising. Revelations aren’t always scary because they’re new. Sometimes they’re overwhelming because they pay off faith in such a major way that they seem to run counter to the very idea of faith. It’s not supposed to be this blatant. It’s supposed to be mysterious. It’s not supposed to stare at you, and everybody else, right in the face like this. But there it is. And here we are.

Meanwhile, the Blazers are headed to the Western Conference Finals after winning a dramatic Game 7 in Denver. Afterward, C.J. McCollum, who scored 37 points on 17-29 shooting, was giddy and outwardly proud. “That’s a credit to our staff and our charisma.” It’s unclear what, if anything, C.J. McCollum mean by this cryptic sentence, which came at the end of a post-game interview on Sunday. McCollum’s enthusiasm is often muted, like he’s just not quite sure the world is real, which given the surreal nature of his path to NBA stardom is perfectly understandable. This was the second straight win for Portland and the second game in the row where he, not Damian Lillard, had been the team’s go-to option down the stretch. McCollum had quietly distinguished himself as a player who could carry a team in this most clutch of situations, putting to rest all the nagging questions about whether he—and this Blazers team—are enough.

Given the circumstances, it’s easy to excuse McCollum for getting things totally backward. He didn’t succeed because of charisma; how could he when he’s constantly hedging against it? But during that interview, McCollum exuded the glow that comes with having plainly, indisputably gotten it done in the postseason. He hadn’t just earned the right to puff his chest out. It was going to happen whether or not he wanted it to because, in that moment, his greatness was undeniable. McCollum had arrived. Not only did he know it and feel good. This was being foisted upon him and all he could do was bask in it.

Winning not only alters the way we view athletes. It transforms them, too. Respect, or at least the most rudimentary version of it, isn’t a matter of opinion. Ultimately, it’s about results. And if we can still debate just how good McCollum is, the parameters of that conversation have shifted because and he’s a very different presence in the NBA than he was mere days ago. Winning not only changes our perception of athletes. It transforms them, too. And sometimes, it hits us right in the gut as well.